


Waiting to Bleed

by branewurms



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Angst, Canon Non-Binary Character, Hot Mess, Knife Play, M/M, Other, absolute human disaster julian devorak, and it probably ticks that kink in a non-porn way, okay not really but i thought it was at first
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-07-27 19:29:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16225793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/branewurms/pseuds/branewurms
Summary: Aaaaangst.———“Do you remember, Ilya,” he said, slow and languid. “When I asked how much you were willing to give?”Ilya’s eyes widened. “Yes.”“And your answer? Is it still the same?”





	Waiting to Bleed

**Author's Note:**

> i was trying to write porn and my hand slipped and this pure angst barfed out instead OTZ
> 
> look if i have to suffer so do you, just get in this gd dumpster already

Asra knew, even as he moved the knife, that he had crossed a line—and the line wasn’t Ilya’s, it was his own. 

There was a sense of standing on the verge of a very long drop, the giddy pull of it, that hysterical urge one had to just spread one’s arms and fly. What had made him do it? This bitter seed inside of him… Did he really have so little control? 

It wasn’t right. Even if he disliked Ilya. (Which he didn’t, not anymore, no matter how he tried to keep hating him.) Even if Ilya bore some of the responsibility for all Asra had lost. (Which wasn’t true, Asra knew it wasn’t, for all he would never let go of this grudge.) It still wouldn’t ever make this right. 

None of it was right. 

_Asra_ wasn’t right. 

———

The magic pulsed through Asra like a drumbeat, far below the register of human ears. But he didn’t need to hear it. He felt it, dark and deep, familiar as a half-remembered dream. 

It was wily, this sort of force—any magic was, really. To achieve anything worthwhile, a magician had to accept that magic wasn’t so much a thing to be controlled as it was a force to be worked alongside, gently guided, allowing for its natural ebb and flow. You couldn’t put a harness on magic any more than you could a river; or rather, you could, but you’d achieve nothing more than looking like a fool, standing there on the riverbank holding a useless leash. 

(This was something Lucio had never understood. Which was probably why he was so hopeless with magic.) 

Find the place where your will and the will of the magic align, that was the key. Of course, that meant you needed clarity, to know just what it was you wanted, or you would find your will aligning with the magic in ways you didn’t intend. 

Still, the forces Asra had been invoking recently were of another category all together. These were primal and lightless, energies that far predated the world itself. No one could fathom their true intentions. Many practitioners called them evil. Asra thought that was a misapprehension stemming from a limited perspective, but, well—experimenting with them was forbidden for a reason. 

Asra didn’t care how good the reasons were. 

The candles flared around the perimeter of the circle. Asra crouched, straddled over Ilya’s prone body, watching his face as the heavy smoke from the censer began to twine around the two of them like a snake. Ilya’s arms were positioned to Asra’s specifications, hands above his head, palm up. He looked afraid, even more so than he usually was when participating in Asra’s spellwork, and his gaze darted restlessly around the circle as the smoke and candles came to life. 

Perhaps he had more sensitivity for this sort of thing than Asra gave him credit for. Certainly the magic felt different than it had previously—jagged and disordered, _serrated_. Whether that signaled anything for good or ill in regards to its potential impact, Asra didn’t know, but it certainly meant it would be more difficult to control. 

Maybe Ilya sensed these differences. Either way, he was clearly frightened. Just ‘tricks’ and ‘hocus-pocus,’ he’d said, yet he was frightened by those ‘tricks’. Frightened by them, yet still he only looked to Asra in supplication, just meekly waiting to bleed. 

It pissed Asra off. 

The desire surfaced to _do_ something, anything to make Ilya push back, to shake him out of this mold he had twisted himself to fit into. Asra saw himself at a remove, almost as though he floated loose from his own body, a detached observer, and the magic hummed in his teeth and itched under his skin as his hand reached for the knife. 

“Do you remember, Ilya,” he said, slow and languid. “When I asked how much you were willing to give?” 

Ilya’s eyes widened. “Yes.”

“And your answer? Is it still the same?” 

“...What?” It was the voice of a child seeing monsters in the shadows under the bed, hoping they weren’t real. 

Somehow, that pissed Asra off even more. He narrowed his eyes. Then he felt it; like a spark to tinder, his annoyance erupted into a cold, disembodied fury, the power within him bubbling blackly outward. It wanted—no, _he_ wanted—to really frighten Ilya, to hurt him, to make him regret every time this power had been dismissed out of hand, to make him regret fashioning himself into a sacrifice to a power he didn’t even believe in, all just for Asra’s favor. 

It must have been showing on his face, because Ilya’s already too-pale skin drained even whiter, his pupils blowing wide in alarm. And still he didn’t move. 

“Asra—”

Asra saw his own hand move, whip-fast, yet his mind seemed to be stretching the moment out like pulled candy. His limbs felt dragged by puppet strings, yet that part of his mind that still floated, detached and calm, it knew better, it _knew_ this was his own will. 

Asra felt Ilya’s whole body go rigid as the knife pressed against his throat, not hard enough to break the skin, but almost. And Ilya still wouldn’t move. His bony hands stayed there above his head, just as Asra had positioned them. 

With dull horror, Asra watched the knife trace up toward the jaw, over that pale skin where the blue webs of veins showed through. Ilya’s adam’s apple bobbed under the cold point of the blade as he swallowed hard, gaze fixed on Asra’s face. His mouth opened as though he meant to protest, but he just closed it again without speaking. 

With a shaking breath, Ilya made himself relax. His eyes unfocused, his eyelids fluttering, lowering as if he were drowsy, or intoxicated. Slowly, deliberately, he tipped his head back, baring the whole of his slim throat. 

Asra’s lips parted in surprise. He could see the pulse jumping frantically beneath that pale skin. “You trust me that much, Ilya?” 

Ilya only looked up at him silently through the fringe of his lashes, and a change slowly came over his features, as though something was opening up behind his eyes: an expanse so desolate and empty that Asra knew the answer without being told. 

“Oh,” Asra breathed. “Oh. You don’t. It’s not trust at all, is it.” 

Ilya swallowed again, letting out a slow breath. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse: “All of me. If that’s what you need.” 

Asra went cold and hot all at once. For a long time he just stared, some twisted up _thing_ writhing deep in his guts, surging slowly up into his chest, burning like bile. He saw a tremor passing through the blade—realized, belatedly, that his hand had begun to shake. Swallowing against the nauseous acid burning in the back of his throat, he forced his arm to move, to pull the knife away.

Reality crashed back in. With a snarl of disgust, he threw the knife aside to clatter over the floor. 

“Asra—” Ilya started, his hands finally moving. 

“ _Don’t._ ” Asra’s voice didn’t even sound like it belonged to him. Ilya froze. 

There was a current swirling through the small, windowless room now, and Asra felt his hair lifting in the draft, prickling with electricity all up and down his body. The candles flared dangerously high at the edge of the circle. Asra gritted his teeth, willing his careening heart rate back down, making himself a ground for the energy that was fast spinning out of his control. 

It filled up his lungs, his veins, it stole his breath and curdled in his blood. Dimly he heard Ilya’s voice again, and he barked out a warning he doubted even formed words. It must have been enough, though, because Ilya didn’t interfere as Asra slammed a palm onto the floor, discharging the power into the path of least resistance, down, down deep into the dark of the earth, where—hopefully—it couldn’t hurt anyone else. 

He knelt there over Ilya’s horrified face, his chest heaving, ears ringing, all of his senses screaming a protest at having briefly been conduit to something older than time. 

Well. At least he’d managed to not die. Or kill anyone else. 

“Asra…?” Ilya’s voice was very small. “Are you…” He tried to reach for Asra again. 

“ _Don’t touch me_ ,” Asra snapped. He pushed himself up, out of reach of those panicky, grasping hands, and stalked out of the room. 

———

Ilya followed; of course he did. 

He hovered as Asra paced slowly beside the counter, trying to shake the tingling from his hands, trying not to scream frustration, or horror, or fury, or whatever this unbearable tightness was in his chest. 

“What, um, what just happened?” 

“‘What happened?’” Asra echoed. “You tried to throw away your life like a used-up rag, that’s what happened.” 

“But you asked—”

“I never asked for something of no value.”

Ilya stood stunned, for once speechless. He looked almost like he might cry, and for a moment Asra really did hate him.

“Everyone is dying, Ilya, but you’re still here. You’re still here, and yet…” Asra broke off and resumed pacing, running his fingers through his hair. It crackled with residual static. 

“Is this…” said Ilya hesitantly. “Is this about—”

Asra knew, suddenly, what Ilya was about to say, and he whirled on him. “Don’t you dare say that name.”

Ilya shut his mouth with a click. Nodded, looking as miserable as Asra had ever seen him.

“I’m not going to kill you, Ilya. No matter how much you want me to.” 

“‘Want’...?” Ilya blinked in confusion. “It’s not like I _want_ to die.”

“Isn’t it?” Asra snapped. “Either way, it doesn’t _mean_ anything. Your life means nothing to you. You can’t achieve anything with a sacrifice like that. It means _nothing._ ”

“Then how?” Ilya held his hands out, entreating. He was so _earnest_. Just tell me how to die better, his posture begged. Tell me how to waste everything I have. “Why can’t you ever just tell me what you need? Why can’t you ever speak plainly? How can I make it mean whatever it is you need it to—”

“Stop!” Asra’s voice rose to a near-shout. “I was never going to _kill_ you, you idiot! I threatened you, and that was wrong, and dangerous, and I’m sorry, but I wouldn’t take your life for…” Asra’s voice died; he realized as it was coming out of his mouth that the second part was probably a lie. He’d never had intentions of killing Ilya, no, but… If he’d thought it might help? If he’d had no better plans? Would he have—? 

He was so _tired._

“Get out,” he heard himself say, soft, monotone.

“...What?” Ilya’s voice was small again, like a child’s. “But your spell—” 

“I said get out. I can’t do this right now.” 

He heard Ilya’s breath hitch. Asra didn’t look at him. 

“Can I…” Ilya said uncertainly. “Can I see you tomorrow?” 

“Just get _out_ , Ilya,” Asra hissed through his teeth, fingers curling into fists. 

The world went terribly silent; then Asra heard the heavy rustle as Ilya picked up his coat, his footsteps as he crossed the shop without another word. 

A jingle sounded as the door opened and gently closed. 

Asra exhaled hard, sliding down against the wall, pressing his palms into his eye sockets until he saw fireworks. His eyes felt so hot they burned, yet they were dry, too dry, so far from tears that it hurt, and his head was throbbing. 

He was so close. He was so _close._

What was happening to him?

Even if he tried, he didn’t think he’d be able to step off this path, not now. And it didn’t matter. He didn’t want to try. From the beginning, he’d known he would do whatever it took. Whatever was happening, whatever he was becoming, if this was the cost: so be it. 

He crouched there for a long time, not moving, the ghost of a name on his lips. Eventually, he found the strength to stand. 

He went back to work. 


End file.
